Lost Glimpses of Life
by Natsumi Wakabe
Summary: There lies in history, small moments that time forgets. There are things we do not remember, but make up some of the things in life that make it wonderful, horrible, good, and bad. 30 drabbles to various prompts for different characters. (Artistic liberties taken- be warned!)
1. Mirror

_Disclaimer: The Wakabe Writing Firm does not own Lord of the Rings, nor does WWF make a profit from writing this._

_A/N: Borrowing another computer while waiting for the return of our own, once they are fixed. Still trying to carry on as normal, whilst ignoring the pining writer in the corner who won't shut up about her baby being broken. Her wailing is annoying, but at least her angst fuels her writing. Wish us luck, and we hope you enjoy. - Isuzu (Ghost Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

Prompt- Mirror: Gilraen

It was a lie. It had to be. There was no way that the person staring back at her was who it claimed to be. Where was the signs of a love lost, of a life destroyed, and the blackening of a life thought to be lived with one she had seen as an extention of her own soul? Where was the broken woman, the young widow that she had become? The face that stared back at her could not be her. No, that lovely young woman, with her blond hair that fell around her face, who had not a single tear in her eyes, nor the slightest quiver in her lips, could not be Lady Gilraen of the Dunedain. This could not be the widowed bride of the slain Arathorn II, mother of Aragorn.

But for all that she willed for the image to change, to become so distorted that she could no longer see anything in it, it did not change. The woman continued to breathe in time with Gilraen, and still stared back. She pursed her lips, and from below the edge of the border, a hand rose up and met her own. The coolness that Gilraen felt from the lying piece of glass did nothing to calm the storm that was brewing inside of her. She stared harder at the image, willing for it to change, to reflect the realities of the many past days of a journey through terror and danger to the safety of a realm she did not belong to. She willed to see her face age with sorrow and pain, to see the physical signs of her heartache and despair that she had locked behind iron door within during those dark days of uncertainty traveling to a house that could never be her home, only a haven for one she loved enough to still live for. She wished for tears to fall down her face, like the never ending raging river that was her grief. She waited for her head to fall back, and scream her fury and agony to a world that had become so dark and uncaring that it had taken from her a husband, and the family she had left behind in order to care for her beloved child.

At the thought of her last connection left to her husband, her breath hitched in her throat, and somewhere inside, she felt something crack. She closed her eyes, and drew into herself, unable to look upon the cool and calm woman reflected back to her, when all she desired was the ability to mourn.

Then, from the open windows of her room, a breeze blew in, a gentle ruffling of the thick curtains, that swept over to her, and almost seemed to hold her. The crack within herself grew larger, and slowly began to bleed out the anguish and misery that she had locked from herself during those dangerous days on the road to safety. Then, the wind blew by her ear, in a voice that she had thought herself to never be blessed to hear again. _Gilraen_. Just a name, just one name, but it was all she needed. A harsh sob broke from her lips for the first time in what seemed like ages, and finally, the wall shattered within her mind, and all of it came flooding out. She bent forward, bracing her hands on either side of the wall, sobbing in a way she had not done since she was a little girl. Her grief was real and raw in a way that shook her very bones, and she revied in its intensity, even as it stole her breathe. Her anger and fury flew from her center to her fingers, which clutched and clawed at the wall, making her fingers smart and her palms redden with the outbursts of anger that fell through them. Sorrow and emptiness turned her legs to jelly, shaking madly under the weight of the turmoil within her body. And still, it did not stop, as she poured out everything she had lost, and let the room bear witness to the destruction of her world and the havoc it had wrought upon her soul.

Finally, after many long eternities of rallying against the world, she opened her eyes. There was the Gilraen that was herself. Tears had left tracks down her red cheeks, with more still pouring from her eyes. Her eyes, which finally showed the pain and anger that she felt, stared back. There was a wetness from her nostrils, thick and dripping, so hard was she crying. Her forehead was creased with the pain of her life's partner gone, and she breathed heavily through her sobs, noisily giving proof to the weight of her grief that bore down on her, body and soul.

Finally, she sank down, no longer able to support herself, as she was slowly drained of everything for a time. Even as the storm calmed, she continued to cry, letting out a small sob every once in a while as her body began to shut down in order to protect itself. Slowly, she crawled to the bed, too exhausted to try and have dignity and stand. As she buried herself in the confines of blankets and darkness, she let herself smile a bit. Her sorrows were not gone. In truth, they never would be. But somehow, she would pull through, even if only to honor her husband and protect the last piece of her heart that still lived. Aragorn would live, even if she had to travel alone for the rest of her life, leading away the monsters that had taken Arathorn.

She closed her eyes, and let the nothingness of a dreamless sleep take her away from her strange new surroundings. She slept, knowing that when she next woke, it would be to a little boy, eager for the familiarity of his mother's embrace, and a sparkle in his eyes that spoke of a joy she had yet to rediscover, and tales of adventures that he had had with his new brothers. When next she woke, it would be time to start the process of moving on.


	2. Shoes

_Disclaimer: See Ch.1_

_A/N: Yes, we are still without our computers, and yes, Natsumi is still wailing away. If it weren't for the fact that it helps her to get more stories done, I would kill her. - Isuzu (Ghost Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

Prompt: Shoes: Elrond

Lord Elrond of Imladris walked through the quiet halls of his home, strangely quiet and lacking in a certain hurricane of laughter and babble in the form of a young child. Enjoying the rare moment of peace without the seemingly endless piles of paperwork required to keep the Last Homely Home running, he had decided to go look for his youngest. It had been quite a few hours since he had seen him at the morning meal, before the elf lord became indisposed of again. The first stop was the gardens, which little Estel was terribly fond of exploring, to both the amusement and dismay of his caretakers who then had to bathe the child after a long afternoon of exploring under trees and in bushes. Indeed, any who had met the little one would be able to say that he was forever getting dirty, always on the floor, watching bugs or collecting rocks and fuana that took his interest. However, there was no inquisitive and adventurous toddler there today.

Backtracking back inside the house, Elrond decided to try the library. Perhaps he had demanded a story from his twins, and they were there now, sitting together in the back, listening to each other read tales of far off places and grand adventures long past. Or perhaps the twins were teaching him how to read, smiling that soft smile reserved only for a child that had stolen their hearts and eased their pains, as he sounded out words that were past his current knowledge. But a quick scan and walk through of the impressive library once more found it devoid of any of his sons, and no sign that his sons had left a gift behind for some poor soul that thought it a safe place from their mischievous hands.

Puzzled, the elf lord then went to the kitchens. Maybe the cooks were getting a light snack ready for them, or perhaps the twins had decided to unleash the little rascal upon the staff as they went about their business getting things together for a prank. His arrival at the kitchens, however, revealed the same thing that he had found in the library and the gardens: no Estel.

He was not panicking, not yet. Despite what his sons might say concerning the youngest resident of these halls, Elrond was not prone to panicking whenever he could not find him. After all, Rivendell was the safest place in Arda for the Hope of Man. No orcs could enter here, and any dangers that could somehow find their way to this place were quickly cut down by the patrols that ran through the valley and protected his realm. There was no need to panic, no need at all.

Perhaps the child was taking a nap. With that thought in mind, Elrond once more entered his halls, this time making his way to Estel's room. The boy was certainly still young enough to need a nap around midday, and he was often found there whenever he could be convinced to rest before he would once more be the little ball of energy that had made Imladris such a happier place than it had been since before... before.

Quickly, he walked down the halls to the family living quarters upstairs, ever mindful of the quiet that had come over his home. Entering into Estel's room, Elrond silently crept in, and smiled at the scene that was before him. There on the bed was his youngest, sleeping contently, with his little head laying on Elladan's chest. In a chair beside the pair was Elrohir, a book still in his lap and open, despite the angle at which it was balanced precariously at. He shook his head to himself, marvelling at the peace the scene before him presented. He knew it would not last long, and that as soon as the young ones woke up, it would be back to chaos as usual. Looking around, he raised an eyebrow at the mess that was the boy's room. Shaking his head once again, he set about putting everything away. As he started to finish up tidying, his foot happened to step on something and he looked down. There on the floor, near Elrohir, were three pairs of shoes. Two of the pairs were large, practical, and identical. Made of leather and tailored expertly, they were made to be able to stand the long journeys that were necessary, at times, to protect others. Though not worn out enough to be in need of replacing, they showed some signs of wear, of journeys taken and places far from home. But the last pair was that of a child's, small and precious, that also showed signs of wear- not of battles against outside forces, but of excited runs through a house that had remained silent and somber for too long, giving laughter and light to those who had thought such things lost to them forever. A sad smile came across the Peredhil's immortal face as he straightened the shoes out. He knew that the time for Estel to grow into the footsteps of his ancestors was ever approaching. The day when Elrond must release him to the world drew nearer with each passing of the sun. But for now, maybe, there could be a chance for peace and happiness untouched by the sorrows of the past and the dangers of the future.


	3. Fingers

_Disclaimer: see Ch1_

_A/N: Natsumi's still crying. The computers still aren't fixed. Help me. -Onoro (Elf Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_Special shout out to dokia and dreamflower02!_

Prompt: Fingers: Finduilas (Wife of Denethor)

She gently held her son's hand as he lay sleeping in her arms, marveling at the child that she had brought forth into the world mere days ago. Though she was still exhausted and her husband would wish for her to rest and regain her strength, she could not find it in herself to close her eyes when there was such a beautiful sight here. She smiled, lovingly, her eyes filled with such a breadth of emotion that she could hardly contain it. She drew her body up from her position lying down, and then arranged herself to curl around this, her precious child. The babe still slept, blissfully unaware of the darkness of the world he had been born into, for which Lady Finduilas wished to keep him innocent of. She let her fingers trace over his head, feeling the soft bed of gold that was there. She then let her fingers wander down to his forehead, where she briefly fingered the sign of protection onto his skin. Then, she traced over the ridges where his eyebrows would grow, then to his little ears. She then brushed her tips against his lips, smiling even bigger as he opened his little mouth and his soft and warm breath fell across her fingers.

Such a precious child he was, this little bundle of joy, the proof of the love between herself and her husband. From every hair on his head, from each little wrinkled toe on his tiny little foot, and each finger on his little hands. This was one of the most precious things, one of the most precious people that would ever exist in her world. This was her child. This was the flesh of her soul.

This was her son.

_Who was covered in armor, leading men, in the ruins of a once great city._

This was a precious little boy, with the world before him.

_Who held the fate of lives in his hands, in the sword that he wielded, and the horn at his side._

This was her littlest, her only child.

_A man that had always done what he had thought right for his people, and his brother._

This was her son, this fragile little form.

_A man she would never get to know, because she would have left him long ago, to face a journey that he would one day join her on, in a land far from home._

She wondered what he would become, what he would like, what he would learn.

_He would be real; flesh and blood that would bleed and sweat and break, but heal- from battle, from heartbreak, from life. He would be strong, in a land where hoped seemed lost, that he would still fight for, that he would die for. He would learn of a man that he would call king but once, and only once._

She hoped he would become someone others would love, and that he would also love.

_Loved by his men, adored by his father, idolized by his brother, whom he loved in return._

She prayed that his future would be one full of joy.

_On a quest that seemed doomed from the start, he would find reason to smile, even as his soul was eaten away by a band of cursed gold. As he lay dying, in the ruins, he would find cause to smile, when he learnt that his failures to preserve himself against that accursed ring would not mean the destruction of his home, of his people, of his brother._

She wanted him to be honorable and strong.

_Though he would not overcome the calling of the ring, he would regain what was taken as he sacrificed his life to try and save those that were to be lost. He would fight valiantly against creatures of magic and evil, forged in the stronghold of one who should not have been an enemy. He would fight, and die, for his people, and still live through three fatal wounds, until he could give a final oath to one that he knew would protect his beloved city._

But above all, she hoped that he would never have the cursed gift of foresight that she had. She did not want him to look into the future and see despair and loss, to miss out on the now because of things that might come to be. She wanted him to make his own way, to carve out his own destiny, to not be bound to visions that hit hard and fast and left tears and pain for something that was not always guarenteeed to happen.

_She did not want him to follow a dream that would lead him to a place that would send him to his death by arrows and a warrior's oath to protect._

No matter how much greatness and help those visions could be at times, no matter what they showed: a future of greatness, or a moment of joy, or a tragedy that they could prevent if they only knew how. No, she did not wish her child that power. She did not want that weight upon his chest, leading him to places that no one could return from unscathed.

_To see where he must go to, that would take him from his home, and break his already damaged family even worse, until only one was left alive to mourn them all._

No, better that this little one did not dream of the future. Best that he did not reach out and try to save those that he could not, or those that he was not meant to save. Better that he did not try to shape reality toward what he could not have, away from what was meant to be or could be or should be. Better that he let the future unfold on its own, and not bind his life to a single vision that would force him to choose.

_To choose to sacrifice his own life, his own honor, to save his brother's. To try and take a circle of destruction and death that was forged in gold. To let slip his soul, his virtues, his honor. To try and bend a power beyond his control, when he was doomed from the start._

No, best he never got the gift; that he never followed those visions.

_Except that he would; that he did._

She kissed his little hand, and held onto his fingers, praying her son would stay true to what was right. Prayed that he would never have to fulfill a life of death and despair, hopelessness and war, with a darkness that was right at their door.

But such thoughts were not for now, in her bed with her son, the sun shining in through the windows, in the White City. No, here, they would be happy, and the future could wait for a bit longer. She would love this, her son, her little Boromir.


	4. Flower

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: Computers out. Natsumi still crying. I can't take this anymore! Hope you enjoy, please excuse me while I kill that woman. - Gabrielle (Avian Secretary, WWF)_

_PS-Probably OOC_

Prompt: Flower: Erestor

It was a normal sunny day in Imladris, and the house was once more full of the laughter of the youngest son of Elrond. From his seat in his office, Lord Erestor could hear the shrieks of laughter that echoed from the gardens. It was a sound that had been absent for too long, and though Erestor wished for a bit of peace as he worked, he could not bring himself to call out for their silence. Not yet. For the moment, he was more than happy to listen the the trio of voices as they called to one another, as they sung their happiness and joy out for all of Imladris to hear, as they let go of the sorrows of their pasts and the uncertainties of the future, and just lived.

It was something that Erestor found himself more and more willing to listen to, as the days went on.

There was the smallest twinkle in his eyes, and his face was softer than before, as he listened to them, alone in his office, with only the papers to bear witness to his secret love of happiness and joy and laughter returning to the valley after centuries of absence. As the day began to wane, and the call for supper rang out, Erestor found himself still in his office, getting ready to once more work late into the night, as was his routine.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter."

The door opened, revealing little Estel, with something hidden behind his back. He had his head tilted slightly down to the side, a shy smile on his face, while he worried the corner of his lower lip. He swung back and forth slightly, rocking with nerves. Erestor felt himself soften instantly.

"May I help you child?"

Estel came forward then, walking timidly toward the normally cool and composed elf that ran the House of Elrond, until he was a few feet in front of where he , he took from behind his back a flower.

"Fo' Estor," he said, fully extending his little treasure toward the dark haired elf. It was a daffodil, probably picked up in the gardens during his time there with his brothers. Though the stem was worn from the grip of a child, and a few petals were missing due to the excitement and habits of the boy, it was still beautiful, as many things in nature were. The yellow at the center was still bright and bold, the soft white of the petals still most becoming and soft. It was such a small gift, a tiny tribute, to the elf lord, but for all that Erestor could have gotten a more exotic or traditionally beautiful flower on his own, this common flower, this weed, as most saw it, was more precious than anything that could have been bought. Not just because it had come from Estel, but because it had been given out of a love that Erestor did not even know the child had for him.

"Thank you, Estel," he said as he took it. "I shall make sure to get it pressed so that it does not fade for some time."

This seemed to please the little boy immensely, as he beamed so brightly at the elf, that Erestor returned the smile, albeit, somewhat smaller. Estel leapt the distance between them, giving the normally untouchable elf a great hug. He turned his large grey eyes up to his elder, before taking a step back. He tugged at the elf's dark robes, trying to force him from his chair.

"Is there somewhere you would like to go?"

"Dinnah is weady! We gots to go 'fore Dan n Ro eat all the rolls!"

Giving a small chuckle that was too low for the boy to hear, Erestor stood, and schooled his features back into their normally haughty and cool expression. "Then we must hurry, tithen pen. It would be remiss of us to be late and not get any rolls."

Erestor rose, and took Estel's hand into his own, engulfing the fingers and palm into his own. They both left the room, leaving behind a small flower on the desk, waiting patiently for their return. It would be the first of many gifts the dark haired elf would receive from the Hope of Men.


	5. Hilt

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: Computers are fixed, but won't arrive for a week. Natsumi is still crying. Damn woman won't stay dead or shut up. Help us, and send us reviews to keep her happy, please. - Isuzu (Ghost Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

Prompt: Eowyn: Hilt

She gripped the dark handle of the sword hard in her pale hands, willing her heart to become just as cold and unwielding as the blade she had grasped in her hands as she made her way to the still body of her cousin, forever most beloved in the hearts of all who knew him, and now, most mourned in all the lands of Rohan, in the halls of Meduselde. For now, he was gone, nothing but an empty shell, where once a brave, courageous, loyal man had once resided in. And she, Lady Eowyn, daughter of the Horse Lords, Lady of the Courts in the Golden Halls, Shield maiden of Rohan, could do nothing, but give her cousin a final parting gift, with dignity and love. She could not trade places with him and give Rohan back its brave prince. She could not take his deah into her own body, letting her soul find a rest that she had never known in her time, because the darkness had taken it. She could not reach into the realm of the dead and drag him back, for all her powress in battle, for all that her heart cried that she should have been able to do at least that for her cousin. No, there was nothing for the Last Lady of the Golden Halls to do but to give the Prince of the Horse Lords a last gift of her love, and give him a proper burial.

Swallowing painfully around a large lump in her throat, the maiden crossed the distance between the door and the body that lay before her. She did not immediately put the sword into his had, but rather, fussed over the shell. She tucked his hair behind his ears, straightened out his clothes, and made sure that his armor was as polished as she could get it. Then, her hand brushed his face, smooth and cold in the grips of the lord of death. She faltered, her hands shaking with the sudden desire to shake him awake, to make him come back, to implore him to open his eyes, just for a moment, just a moment-

But she could not. Instead, she closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath to try and fight back the tears that she could feel building behind her eyes. Her fist clenched in on itself, the nails biting deeply into the skin, drawing a few drops of crimson life from the vessel of the Lady of Rohan. She would not disgrace her cousin with her tears, not when he would have wanted her to do what she had to in order to protect their people. The same people that he had died for, needlessly all because of a vile creature clothed in human flesh. The same people that had helped to make him a man that made his father and king proud, that had given hope to their people in the way that he retained his honor and dignity, in the way that he had taken to battle for his people in order to keep them safe.

The same people that were waiting to send him deep into the earth, away from the light of day.

Eoywn bit her lip, and made her mind end that thought. There was no time for tears, not when she had one last gift to give him, before leaving to take her place at the mound that he would be put into.

She reached down to the side, where the sword lay. For a moment, she admired the blade. It was shining, its bright silver almost mirror-like as it glistened in the low light that penetrated that dreary place. It was unbent, no sign of the battles it had seen upon its blade, and had been recently cleaned. THe hilt was black, shining, beautiful in its simplicity, and carefully crafted to fit perfectly into the hands of its weilder.

Lovingly, gently, patiently, she brought it up to him, and lay it upon his chest. Then, she took both of his (cold, pale, lifeless, still, dead, dead, dead, dead-) hands into her own, and folded his arms. Then, she slid the hilt of the sword into the empty hands, folding the fingers, and then placing a small bunch of flowers into the opening on the top.

That done, she looked him over, trying to see if there was anything else to do. Trying to find a flaw in his form, a reason for her to stay, to prolong the inevitable, to stop time if just for a moment, before it was over. But there was nothing for her to do (because he was beyond her help, beyond her words, beyond her reach, beyond any power that might lay in her blood). There was not a hair out of place (so unlike when he had been alive, with his dark and long mane often tangled, or dirty from sweat and the earth from long patrols of his beloved home, or the few strands that always seemed to defy his hands when he tried to tame them). There was no need of cloth to shine his sparkling and clean armor (so different from when he still breathed, whe it was often streaked with dirt from long rides of the borders, covered in the blood of enemies most foul, or splattered with mud and grass from a tussle on the ground). There was nothing wrong with him (except that he was dead, except that he no longer breathed, except that he no longer would hail to the call of the Horse Lords, would no longer walk among the halls, was gone, gone, gone, gone-).

Her task done, Eoywn leaned down, giving her cousin one final kiss goodbye on the cheek, whispering to the gods one last prayer, and giving him her last vow to him.

"By your death and my blood, our people will not fall. Gods willing, horses strong, and the Lords of Horses together once more, we will not die. Your death shall not be in vain, cousin." She straightened up, every inch of her proud and tall, strong and beautiful, determined and renewed by the knowledge that even if it meant her life, she would fulfill her oath to the last of the House of Theoden.


	6. Tree

_Disclaimer: Ch1_

_A/N: Computers finally back, but data was lost forever. Now having to convince Natsumi, in her grief, to start rewriting all three chapters she lost. Save me. Also, send her reviews so that she'll shut up for a few minutes and write. Thanks, and hope you enjoy. -Isuzu (Ghost Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

Prompt: Halbarad: Tree

He often came here, just to talk to those who had borne this weight before. Even if they could not respond to him, even if he could not know if they could hear him, Halbarad liked to think that they enjoyed his company. Halbarad did not go as often as he once had- he was too often away from the Angle, performing his duties as a Ranger defending the Shire on his patrols, and helping to ensure the safety of the Angle when he was back.

But still, when he could spare a moment in the dangerous and seldom rewarding life of a Ranger, between patrols and healing, he liked to visit this tree.

This tree, which housed the fallen body of his leader, the "official" last man of the Line of Elendil.

"Hello, Arathorn." His tone was light, his face neutral but with a small smile. He came forward and placed a hand upon the bark, closing his eyes in reverence as his calloused fingers lightly dragged down the rough bark before his large palm finally rested against the dark wood. This was no White Tree, would never give any kind of indication as to the great man who rested beneath its roots, feeding the tree life from the death of a young leader torn from Arda too soon.

"I suppose that it's been a while since I was last able to come here," he said softly, eyes still closed as he let himself become immersed in the moment- a normally dangerous thing for a ranger to do, but he thought that he should be allowed this one moment before going back to being constantly vigilant, on edge, waiting for the inevitable attack. His smile waned a bit, before he went back to his one sided conversation.

"Well, I suppose that I should tell you of the happenings in the Angle. We've had five new births, and as you can guess all the mothers are up in arms again. Would you believe that Hopper's finally got a wife? Took him a while, but he fell hard for ole Snake eye's daughter. She's a pretty one, long hair of gold, very intense eyes. You'll be happy to know that Hope is still alive, even if it no longer walks with us."

He spent a few more minutes just talking, switching between the various languages that he had come across in his travels, and constantly rambling about what was going on. It would not due, after all, if he failed to tell his late leader what he had missed out on. During the entire time that he did this, he never once opened his eyes, choosing instead to lose himself in the feel of the rough bark beneath his fingers, pressing indents into them and leaving him with little wooden chips. As he went on about the different things that had happened, he whispered in an ancient tongue that only the Dunedain and elves could remember what was most worrying.

_"I know, my friend, that you worry for your son. I know that even from where you are, beyond the reach of Arda, in a place that I will only know in my final days before the ending of all time, that you want him safe. Even with all the safety that that realm provides you, it is not enough to keep you from worrying for your son. Even your lady wife worries, and grieves for what she knows is coming and what must be. And I confess to also worrying, for although I have temporary leadership over our people, I still cannot stop my heart from aching with the loss of one that should still be with us. But it is not to be. Is this what it was like for you, my brother in arms, my captain, my chief? Were you ever plagued with such thoughts as you went into battle? Did you know that day, when you rode out with your elven kin that they would be taking your son with them? Were you cursed with such knowledge, knowing that you would die leaving behind many that would mourn you deeply, to the point where true joy would never again be found?" _

At this, he paused, and finally opened his eyes, looking just beyond the girth of the tree, seeing the open land, with grass growing in all directions, and trees further down, surrounding this little isolated tree that stood as testimony to the one beneath its roots. He was not gifted with the ability to see beyond the veil, could never pierce that curtain that kept him from seeing his slain kin when they made to walk among his people, to stand by his side in times of trouble though they could give no help. He would never have that gift, would never feel that curse upon him, making him one who walked two worlds and would never be able to command the dead, or speak to them as he tried now to speak to his slain kinsman. But for the briefest of seconds, for a flicker of a moment, he let himself pretend that Arathorn stood there, on the other side of this lone tree, smiling at him. He let himself pretend that the chill of the growing cold of night was the feel of his chief trying to reassure him that all was well, even if it was only in that Arathorn was at peace.

And then, he let it go.

"I shall come by again another day, my captain. Perhaps I shall even be able to bring another, someone that you will want to talk to that has not seen you in many years."

He turned away then, heading back to the village that his family resided in, head held high and eyes alert and scanning for danger. Yes, he would bring someone here later, when the true Chieftan of the Dunedain rejoined them once more, and Hope would walk among them. Until then, Halbarad had a job to do, people to protect, and an oath to uphold.


	7. Blanket

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: First off, thank you everyone who has reviewed. It helps a lot to know that people enjoy this series [which might be expanding to 30 soon]. Natsumi is still mourning lost data, but is very happy to have her baby back. Now we just have to convince her to write the other two chapters. That duty falls on Isuzu, which is why right now I'm here to put this one up. Thank you, hope you enjoy and wish us luck.- Gabrielle (Avian Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_To Dokia- thank you very much for all your reviews, we love you!_

Prompt: Elladan: blanket

Elladan Elrondion looked down at the precious bundle he had wrapped in the strong arms of a warrior and soft fabric of a gentle yellow blanket. For the first time in weeks, the babe slept soundly, no cries from night terrors being ripped from his little mouth, no tears streaming down his soft cheeks staining them with sorrow and fear from memories so painful that the child's mind had repressed them in order to protect his fragile psyche, least they destroy him. Since his arrival, little Aragorn, now known as Estel to the rest of the world, had only ever made his voice known in those terrified screams in the dead of night, when his mind could no longer safeguard him from the horrors of what he had seen, the pain of what he had already lost so young in life and the damning and painful death of a man he would never remember except for the last image of him that he ever had: his father sprawled on the forest floor, an arrow through his eyes, staring unblinkingly at him from where he was hidden in the bushes, silent with shock and heartbreak.

No, tonight no sound came from the little one, save for the soft and deep breathing of a dreamless sleep, a slight smile upon his face. Elladan could not help but wonder and marvel at the innocence that he still had, at the strength and beauty he possessed in a body fragile and tiny and so very young.

Estel had not been alive long, had not even reached five winters, and yet already had been able to ensnare the entire house of Elrond with his large beautiful silver eyes that gave his love and light freely and asked for but love and the security of arms around him. Just as the little one was safe in his newly christened brother now.

It had been so long since Imladris had played host to a child so young, to one that was held so dearly to the elves there. More than that, it was the first time in a long time that Elladan found a reason to let go, for even the briefest of moments, the hatred and fury and anger and pain that had plagued him for over two thousand years since that day he and his twin had rescued their mother from the hands of vile creatures that had once been their own people. It was something that he had never thought possible, to feel so at peace, so content with life, without the looming sense of failure that had consumed the very air he breathed for so many years. Though such thoughts still plagued him now, they had faded to a background noise, no longer driving him to try to make up a sin that was not his to bear to a mother that had left for healing long ago. He had thought it impossible to have such joy in his heart again, so soon after the degradation and splitting of his family.

Yet now, as he held this child in a soft yellow blanket, Elladan found his heart light once more, full of happiness and peace that it had been lacking for a number of years now. Here, in his home, which was beginning to shed the last of its gloomy atmosphere that had become a part of it for many years, holding the last of the line of the kings of men, he had found that soft smile that he had lost so many years ago. Here, with the Hope of Men resting in his arms, Elladan found joy as bright and soft as the blanket that covered the child, protecting him from the cold. And like that blanket, Elladan would protect his little brother, would defend him from the terrors of his past, of the night, and of the evils until he would have to let him go, to find his own fate beyond the realm of Imladris.

How long Elladan stood there with his baby brother in his arms, Elladan did not know. For him, time seemed to both freeze and zoom by, move slowly and quickly where this little one was concerned. It was not until Estel started to twitch in his sleep that Elladan became aware of how dark it was. The candles were barely lighting the room, their flames struggling to stay alight as the melted wax crept upon them, drowning them. As if sensing growing darkness around him, Estel started to struggle, moving within his little yellow cocoon, whimpering quietly as the memories that he could no longer recall as sharply started to rear up in his mind.

"Sh, sh, hush tithen pen," Elladan whispered, starting to rock back and forth in an effort to reach the child through the haze of tormenting dreams. "You are safe now. Hush, little one."

It seemed to work, because Estel settled for a moment, the frown that had started to etch itself on his face fading, before he started to thrash frantically. Elladan then started to walk as he rocked him, hoping that the swing of his steps and the gentle sway of his arms would help to steady him. He pressed his little head to his chest, over his heart, so that he would hear the calm and steady beating inside, and know that all was well. Slowly, Estel stopped his struggling, breathing evening out again, as the calm and loving aura of Elladan reached him. As he settled, he twitched in his sleep and slowly began to wake. As his eyes fluttered open, Elladan could not help the soft and gentle smile from stealing over him, his eyes overflowing with love for this small child. Sleepy storm grey eyes looked into his own, before a yawn overcame Estel, making him bury his head into Elladan's chest, until he fell back to sleep.

Elladan walked out of Estel's room, deciding then to take him to bed, so as to keep watch over his sleep. As he settled the two of them on his bed, Elladan kissed the top of Estel's head, before positioning them so as to keep Estel in his arms, with his little head above his heart. The morning would come soon enough, but for now, Elladan just wanted to hold onto the child that had granted his family peace and hope and love, in the darkness of their grief. It was a good way to end the night, he thought, as he drifted to sleep, with the Hope of Men, his little Estel, safe in his arms, knowing that tomorrow would be there soon enough.


	8. River

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: So, Natsumi is about ready to kill me, but I wanted this chapter up, so I followed Isuzu's example and Took Drastic Action, and also bribed her a bit. Hope you enjoy. -Onoro(Elf Secertary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_Again, dokia, you are amazing. All my reviewers are amazing. Thank you all so much._

Prompt: Elrohir: river

The Bruinen, despite popular belief, was not always the raging and racing river that kept a firm boundary of where Imladris lived, and the outside world stood. It branched off into many smaller streams and collected in ponds all across the border, offering peace and life to those that had need of it. Elrohir, as a warrior that was often on patrols against the dark forces that would seek to destroy his home, was intimately familiar with it, and was no stranger to its many more reclusive spots. There was one place in particular, rarely sought and very peaceful but secluded, that Elrohir knew of. It was not a place he often went. He preferred to stay in the company of his kin, even in the depths of his despair, when the world seemed too dark, too horror filled. He did not always seek their company, but that did not mean that he wished to be alone, that he did not want to know that he need but open the door to his room and know that his kin was there, that he was not alone.

But today, all he wanted to be was alone. Even with the light and hope that his new little brother filled him with, Elrohir found himself wanting to feel that darkness that had been almost banished from his mind since they had taken in that little boy almost three months ago. He did not want to let go of the anger and hatred that he felt toward those foul beasts that had destroyed so much with the single vile act against a Lady so sweet and fair. He wanted to, if not unleash it, revel in it. He hated this part of himself, hated how much anger and hatred boiled just beneath the surface. He could not be rid of the battle cry that was always clawing at his throat, wanting to declare war once more on those dark creatures. He hated it, didn't want it, but could not be without it after so many centuries with this burning, rolling, swirling mess of such horrible wishes and dark desires for death and destruction.

Slowly, Elrohir stripped off his boots, leaving them behind on the grass before making his way into the smaller offshoot of the Bruinen. He stepped into the river, feeling the water pulling at his feet, tugging at his calves as it tempted him with the thought of simply floating away from everything, from everyone. Still, he held against it, once more battling against what was inside of him, buried so far beneath. He felt all of it coming up and over him, could feel that war cry clawing at his closed throat, wanting out, needing to scream to the sky of the desire of blood and death in the dark of the night, from creatures that can only ever come out in the shadow of darkness. He went further into the water, until it went just past his knees, and then stopped, trying to force his body to relax as he felt the water rush by him, continuing on its journey and taking from his body some of the dirt that he had picked up along his journey. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing coming a little hard through his nose as he kept his mouth shut, not wanting any noise to spill from them, least he alert the world of his dark desires.

He would that the river could take the darkness from his soul, just as it swept away the dirt from his body. He longed to feel clean again, to no longer smell the repugnant stench of orc blood on his flesh. He wished for the sight of his fallen friends and loved ones to stop haunting his dreams, every time that he did not go to bed too exhausted to dream. He desired the peace that only the dead knew, because they were no more, and could not be haunted by what had been, in the land where the living could not rest in.

His hands were clenched tight, as though he were trying to hold back the inner storm that he wanted to let go of, but could not. From beneath his short nails, small tendrils of red life fled from him, traveling down the finger, gathering at joints before dropping down into the river below, getting lost in the rush of water and dirt and life unseen. He held his breath then, for a minute, as he tried to out wait the need to scream, knowing that it would do no good, and that even here, so far from many, there was still the risk of being found when he did not desire to be. Time passed slowly as the battle cry died in his throat. Finally, he opened his mouth, just a little, just enough to let out a rush of air and to release a part of that darkness within, which had settled in his lungs, hot and heavy in a most uncomfortable manner.

"Ro!"

The sound of his name coming from the child that had helped him to learn to set aside his grief rang out through the clearing. It startled the elf from his pit of dark thoughts, as his head shot up and his eyes snapped open. A part of him rebelled against this invasion of privacy, even from one so beloved and innocent as Estel. He especially did not want his little brother to see him like this. But before he could remove himself from the river, his little brother emerged from the forest, with Elladan in toe.

And the look of pure joy, of the truest love, and an innocence that Elrohir remembered vowing to protect, broke through the darkness that he had shrouded himself in. The anger and anguish dissipated, and the dark voices within that spoke of blood and war against the creatures that had taken from him his mother, his brothers in arms, and his friends, were shoved back behind the door within his mind, no longer screaming within him. A smile, small as it was, crept over him, and his eyes softened completely, with only the smallest amount of the whirlpool of conflicting emotions showing at the bottom of his stormy eyes. He laughed as Estel was picked up by Elladan, carried over to the edge of the river, where he thrust his little hands up, laughing and imploring him.

And Elrohir, whose heart had been captured by this child so small and yet so powerful, did not deny him. He took his little brother in his arms and reveled in feeling of love that rolled through him, chasing away the last remnants of his despair.

He smiled, and walked back to the shore. He could mourn the past later; the present was so much more important, especially when it was filled with the laughter and love of Hope.


	9. Fire

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: So, here we are again. I have to say, when Natsumi's nervous, it does marvels for her writing. Look at her, not even a full day after she posts her first slash fic, and she's writing. Give her a hand. Anyways, here's the newest installment. Hope you enjoy, and please review.-Onoro (Elf Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

Prompt: Boromir: Fire

The dancing of the flames kept in the heath did little to warm the man inside the room. For two gods forsaken months, Boromir had been traveling, needing to get to a place that might not even exist anymore, if it ever did. Already on this road, he had lost his horse, come across three small bands of orcs (mostly during the pre-dawn, which had made him even more grateful to his teacher for teaching him to sleep with his boots on and his sword close by), been chased out of two barns, three houses, and forced to turn down no less than five fights. Overall, it was not the best week. But still he pressed on, knowing that he needed to reach that land so far north, so far from his home, from his brother and his father.

His brother. The reason why he was there. The purpose for his leaving- leaving his soldiers, leaving his home, leaving the battle when he was needed most. So that he could help his brother and keep him safe. Even if it was only to keep him safe from the inevitable. Boromir would rather that his brother died in battle, against the very forces that they had both sworn to defend their home and people from, than in the wilds, by mistake, and left unmourned because he would not be found. Better that Faramir stayed where he could fight an enemy that he knew intimately, even if it meant that Boromir might not return home.

_If there was a home to return to._ He pushed that damned voice away, physically shaking it off him, as though it had placed its cold and heavy hand upon his shoulder. He refused to listen to it, to let it ring with anything more than the pure speculation that he knew it to be. And yet, as he stared at the dying flames, he could not help but wonder if it was, in fact, only speculation.

Boromir had few illusions about what was happening to his home. His father's rule had been failing for years- not just with the recent decay of darkness and bleak visions, but for as long as Boromir could recall. Even with both of the Steward's sons hard at work, fighting against the legions of Mordor, there was not enough power to keep the darkness away forever, no matter how much they might wish it. They were attacked almost daily by the foul beasts of Mordor, assuaged at every angle, and unable to call for aid. Even if they could reach out to their estranged sister cities, could call for an aid and arms and men to help them fight, Boromir doubted that they would have been answered. Such things had faded into the past, just as the Line of Kings was gone. What alliances there might have once been between men and elves had long since died, and even if it hadn't, who was to say that the elves would answer in time? What certainty existed still for the bonds of blood and oath that could save Gondor from its fate? Where was the Hope that once shone just as brightly in the White City as its glimmering walls of white? Where was the strength of men, when so many of them died in those desperate battles at the river, just trying to keep the line?

Where was their help for those that were too proud to call for it, even as those they loved died?

Boromir stroked the fire, which had dwindled down to a soft glow of a burnt log, getting to his knees so that he could better attend it. As he tended to the fire, helping it to regain its strength and heat the room up more, he chanced to look into the flame itself, and paused. Perhaps hope was not so lost, he mused after a moment. Perhaps all it needed was a bit of care, a small relief and a kind moment between brethren. Had he not always done his best to share moments with Faramir, even after cold and bleak missions? Had he not tried to keep the peace between stoic and unfeeling father and cautious but determined and clever brother?

Why should he be the one to give up hope, when he could still see it?

He could see hope still, even if he did not know it in his own city. He could see it in the trees and forests that he walked through, untouched by the smoke and inky, deadly blackness of Mordor. He could see hope in his soldiers as they had rallied to him in the heat of battle, determined to defend their home and loved ones, even at the cost of their own lives. He had seen hope in the way that both he and his brother had shared a vision, a dream, of a possible salvation in a land so far from them. He saw hope when he shared ale with his brother, and they had been able to laugh together. He saw hope in the small moments, between bitter battles and painful surgeries, between harsh words that wounded spirits and the burial of friends he had tried and failed to save. He saw hope, as fleeting as it was. He knew it, even if it was only briefly.

Smiling softly, he returned to his feet, noticing that he could no longer feel the cold that had previously inhabited the room. Now, even if only for one night, he felt warm, in a way that he had not been able to since his departure. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes, soaking in all that he felt, the momentary peace, the calmness of knowing he was doing what he was meant to, and burned it into his mind. If this was to be one of those brief moments that Boromir was allowed to feel hope and peace, so far from home, then he would keep it close to his heart. The road before him was long and hard, and he knew that at times it would seem hopeless and lost. But if he could keep this memory, these feelings, close to him, then it would help to strengthen his resolve. He would get to Rivendell, and get help for his people. He just had to keep hope alive.


	10. Dance

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: So, Faramir is giving us trouble, apparently not very happy that I wanted to do a very angsty chapter with him. So we decided to give him some time to pout it out before going back to him. So here's Rosie, Sam's love interest, for you. Hope you enjoy-Onoro (Elf Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

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Prompt: Rosie Cotton: Dance

They had danced this dance for many years, she and Samwise. It was one she was intimately familiar with, had been part of since she was a girl. He had always been shy to her touch, mostly unwilling to take the initiate, to go to her, though she knew that he wanted to. It had endeared him to her, made her want to get closer to this shy hobbit. This shy hobbit, who was the son of a friend of her father's, who was kind and courteous to her, and indeed to all hobbits. This shy hobbit that blushed when talking to her, who stumbled over his words and spoke in large rushes, where words would simply pour out of him before he went silent, nervous and anxious.

Even now, years from their first day playing in the sun, they still danced, always a back and forth back and forth easy routine, one that ended too often with their parting before she could press a little closer, before she could see him become a little more flustered and relaxed with her. She gave him knowledge of her desire for more through her actions, letting him know that she wanted to become more with him. He always gave shy smiles to her, but always hesitated to make a move. He followed her with his eyes as she danced alone in the middle of a crowd, giving form to her joyous spirit and happy soul. And whenever he gathered his courage enough to go to her (or whenever his master pushed him into the mass of dancing hobbits) it was always an easy dance between them. And how could it not be, when they had been dancing for so long together?

Though she longed to push for more, to ask for more, Rosie held her tongue. She knew that it was not yet time for them. Their time would be later, just as the sowing of seeds demanded time to grow, to blossom, so that fall would bear fruit of hard work and patience. She would have to wait for him to gather his courage and strength that she knew resided inside him, to let go of the fear of rejection, when such a possibility was not possible, not with her. And when they finally had their time together, barring any disaster for either of them, then it would be a most joyous occasion.

But for now, she would wait, letting the tension buuld as their dance neared its end, day by day, waiting to let them bow out of it, so as to start a new dance. And as she danced in the middle of all the other hobbits, at the One hundred and elventh birthday of one Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and the thirty third birthday of a Mr. Frodo Baggins, she could not help but smile with a profound happiness of what she knew. All she needed now was patience, and diligence in guarding her heart as she waited for his to reach for her own.

And when she found herself with an arm full of bashful but dancing hobbit, she could not help the smile that overcame her, nor the warm laughter as they danced around, coming closer and closer together, circling, parting, rejoining, with what seemed to be all the Shire, indeed all the world, at their little dance. And when the fireworks in the form of a dragon broke the trance they had seemed to have settled in, she did not mourn the loss of that temporary but wonderful connection with him. She knew that it was just one of many that she would have with him. She knew that there would be more; if not now, then later. She would wait, just as she had waited for many years now.

It would not be long, and she was willing to wait.


	11. Dagger

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: Brothers can be some of the most annoying people, but are also the ones that can hurt us the most when they're gone. But sometimes, they find ways to tell us they love us, even without words. That doesn't mean that Miss Natsumi is going to let Mr. D get off that easily, just because he inspired this. Many thanks, hope you enjoy, and please review.-Michiko (Witch Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

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Prompt: Faramir: Dagger

Faramir held the parcel in his hands, hesitant to open it and see what was inside. Though not one who was seen as a coward, nor one of the faint of heart, he found himself uneasy and extremely reluctant to open the gift in his hands. It was a plain parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied together with a single thin light tan thread. His name was scrawled onto it in handwriting that he knew he was intimately familiar with. Handwriting he knew would never again be written in, because the one who could lay claim to such atrocious handwriting was…

Faramir shook his head, trying to dispel whatever was trying to stop him from opening up the present that had been for him when…

When his brother returned from Rivendell, to celebrate his birthday and his safe return.

Faramir shook his head at the thought. It seemed impossible back then for him to think of any other scenario than one where his brother returned to him alive. Hurt, certainly. Near death, possibly. But dead? No, not that. Not Boromir, Captain of Gondor, the good son, the wanted son. The son that had not let his father down.

The brother that loved him enough to see him as someone worthy of love.

And that is what he misses most. Is the fact that now, that friendly voice that was always quick to laugh and ready to defend him was no longer there. That the arms that held him safe as a babe and gave him a haven when even his own home could no longer give him peace would never again open up to him, to embrace him in those limbs with solid biceps and war toughened muscles. That the one who found no fault in his desire for knowledge, in his cunning, in his wit that was so often hidden from the rest of the world, was no longer there to laugh and smile and banter with him.

That his brother would never be there.

But…

But he knows that his brother would not have him still be mourning him after so long. He knows Boromir, know him still even in death. He knows that he would not have Faramir still be stealing off into the safety of woods and wilderness in order to lament over what can no longer be. He knows that Boromir would not have him weep even now, years from the day that he found his brother's cloven horn, his funeral boat, with the person who was, then, the most important person living in Faramir's world- even, to his greatest secret shame, the people of Gondor he was sworn to protect.

And really, he should open the damned thing. After all, Boromir would have wanted him to have it, whether or not he was there.

He slowly unwrapped the paper, blinking away the sudden buildup of moisture at the first glimpse of what was inside. He takes in a deep breath, has his fingers run lightly over the sheathe that held the weapon. Gulping, he wets his lips nervously with his tongue, before letting the paper fall to the floor, its travel down unnoticed by the man who slowly takes the blade handle and slowly extracts it from its protective cover.

He held the blade in his hand, letting the flickering light of candles reflect off its bronze hilt and wires of iron. It was a simple dagger, little more than a knife but it was something that he was intimately familiar with. He was very familiar with such a blade, having been there the day that Boromir had received the gift from their father. But he knew that this was not the same blade, but a twin of the one that had accompanied his brother in his last days, hopefully helping to aid him in his journey before leaving the world forever.

It was a simple thing, really. Though not quite like most of the blades out there, it was still significantly smaller than a sword. No leather covered its hilt, nor was the tip of the blade slender, but more blade like, wide and sharp, ready to cause great damage to whoever thought to take on the wielder.

There is no doubt in his mind that this small gift is something that his brother had thought long and hard on this gift, very aware that giving this was a means of trying to make up for the shortsightedness of their father, trying to appease that gaping wound that would never close where Faramir's worth in their father's eyes was concerned. And it was also a way of telling him that even if their father deemed him unworthy of gifts and love, that to his brother, he was worth it and more.

Faramir held the blade close to him, a single tear running down his cheek, knowing that this blade would become something even more than what his brother had originally intended it to be.

It would be a last gift of love between brothers, a last piece of brotherhood to testify for the depths and breadth of what they had.

It would be a part of his brother that he would carry forever. Close to his heart, always with him, even if they would not be reunited again until his time for the final journey came. A journey that would be well earned, and filled with peace, because of who would be waiting on the other side.

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_Dokai: thanks you for the corrections! I just uploaded them to this new version. Thank you though! You're awesome!_


	12. Door

_Disclaimer: see ch1_

_A/N: So, Nano is here, which means that April is dead month. Natsumi's off to Writer's Hell, so everyone say goodbye, and wish her well. She should be back, mentally broken by June. Until then, here's one last hurray from the Firm, until she can be dragged back into the FanFiction part of the Firm. Please give her a review to remind her that she still has people to return to later. Many thanks, hope you enjoy, and hope to see you soon.-Onoro (Elf Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_Many thanks to our reviewers, especially Dokia. Hope you enjoy, and hope to see you again_

* * *

Thranduil couldn't open the door. His hand kept hovering, unable to connect with the smooth and round cool metal before him. Constantly, his hand performed the dance of indecision and conviction, gracefully rising to grasp the knob, but then stopping, hovering, never touching that which separated him from the place that held so many memories of a woman that he had loved with all that he was, who had been his light in darkness, and then taken from him by that very darkness that he had fought against for so long.

He wanted to open the door. By the Valar, he should have opened it by now. It had been centuries since he had last gone in there. He should not feel like this, so weak and helpless against the swell of emotions that pushed through him every time that he extended his hand, fingers ready to take hold of the door, to force it open after so long of being closed- not only to him, but to all those that had loved her and known her.

And yet...

And yet there was something about going in there that caused his heart to leap to his throat of plummet down to his stomach. There was something about the thought of entering those rooms that gave him pause. Made him listen to a far off sound that reminded him of a scream, deep in his mind, in the darkest and deepest part of his psyche, where the screams he had given so long ago when he had first held her limp body, torn and bloody by foul beasts. Something about the thought of entering those rooms made him stop, caused the last thing that he had seen in those rooms to come forth in his mind. His son, so young, too young, with eyes haunted and empty, his Ea almost gone, as he faded from a grief that should have never been his. He can still feel the shaking form in his arms, still hear those broken sobs, and those tears that had burnt cold and frozen hot on his skin. He knows what those walls hold inside, knows what memories are inside. He knows that no one had entered this place for... an eternity of loneliness and pain, the only reason for his continued existence in Arda being the son that his Lady-Wife left him, the thought of him taking the throne when tragedy was still too close.

But he needs to go inside.

There's a present inside there, one that he and his wife had picked out before Legolas was born, hidden inside those chambers for when he was finally of age. It was supposed to be their first gift to him, the one that would declare to him just how much they loved him and were proud of the elf he had become. It was something that they were going to present to him together. And he needs to have it because tomorrow is the celebration, and he needs it, he needs it. He needs his son to know of the depths of his mother's love, needs to know just how much she still loves him even when she is away in Mandos's Halls. He needs to know that even after she is gone, her love for him is still strong.

But he can't go in there.

He can't reenter that place, where every room holds ghosts. He can't go in there, when he knows that all he will see is her face, smiling one minute, happy and hale, and the next minute with blood leaking from the corner of her blue lips. He can't go in there, where he will see his love sitting at her vanity, brushing her golden hair, and then see blood dripping from her crown, as she hums. He can't go in there, knowing that every loving memory that he had of her, every stolen kiss, whispered endearment, private moment, would reappear in front of him, tainted by her death.

But...

But this is something that they had wanted to give their son. This was supposed to be about him. And surely, he can push aside his discomfort for the five minutes it will take to get it.

And it was what she would have wanted.

She would have wanted this.

With this in mind, Thranduil reached out, and grasped the metal. Swallowing thickly, he takes a moment to gather his reserve close, and opens the door for the first time in years.


	13. Letter

_Disclaimer: see Ch 1_

_A/N: See Natsumi. See Natsumi run. See Gabrielle going after her with a machete. See Isuzu scream not to kill the writer or damage her hands because she has to finish her nanowrimo writings. Laugh. Want some popcorn? Hope you enjoy, and please review so Natsumi has something to read while she recovers from Gabrielle's attack and NaNoWriMo. Thanks- Onoro (Elf Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_OC Alert! I wanted to do something about a ranger, but I already did Halbarad, so I decided to give Royd Tolkien's character a bit of a background. So here he is! Hope you enjoy, and tell me what you think, please._

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Gybryn sat in his room, recently returned from his patrol of Rohan's borders. A single flickering flame lit the room, the wax dripping down. The shadows were thick, gathered ominously at the corners of the room. But no shadow could ever hope to conceal the letter that lie on the bedside table. His usually keen green eyes were staring glazed and unseeing at the letter. It was a simple letter, folded up neatly inside of its plain white and cream envelope, a seal being the only thing that distinguished it from all the other letters. The envelope was sealed with a plain black wax seal, the seal of death. It was the color everyone in or connected to the community of the Rangers and Soldiers of Gondor feared and dreaded. A hated letter that only ever brought grief and unending sadness from the contents of the words written in a pretty script as if their beauty could make up for the tears and screams to come.

Gybryn did not want to open it. He did not want to open it and find out which of his brothers had fallen to the enemy. He did not want to be forced to accept the demise of kin that was not just blood but of arms as well. He did not want to open it but-

But Gubryn had a family of two little girls and a baby boy, his wife always so frazzled but happy, and so very in love. Halbryn had only recently married, having only a month to enjoy the love of a wife before he had to leave in order to perform his duty as a captain. And Dyran, little Dyran had only just finished training, had only just been assigned to his first unit.

Slowly, as though he were approaching an angry and hurt beast, Gybryn reached out slowly, hand stopping just before the envelope. Then, quickly so as not to lose his nerve, he snatched up the letter and ripped it open.

At the top, he saw the date (less than a month, less than a month ago one of his own died) and on the right corner, he could trace the faintest hints of ink from someone's fingers.

And there, in that (cursed, horrid, neat, stupid, pretty, useless) calligraphy, the letter started.

_To Gybryn, son of Gibbson_

_We regret to inform you of the death of Dyran_

He stopped reading, the letter fluttering to the ground of lifeless hands. It wasn't could the world be so cruel as to take one so young, so vibrant? Why had the Valar demanded his life so soon when he had only just begun to live? Gybryn thought back to when he had last seen his youngest brother, face glowing with sweat and excitement at the though of soon becoming a soldier of Gondor, finally able to join his brothers as a defender of his people. He remembered the short shaggy hair blond brown hair (so like their mother's) forever flying around his face, never quite tame no matter what he did. And he remembered green eyes that were always touched with mischief and sparkling with intelligence, a most devastating and dangerous combination to his brothers when Dyran was younger and more prone to pranks. Eyes that he would never see again.

No tears came though, despite the grief that ran rampant through Gybryn's heart. His brain had severed the connection, too overwhelmed with such sorrow to be able to withstand the storm that battered inside Gybryn. He got up and walked out of the room to stand at the door leading to the outside world. And suddenly, he found himself at the training grounds, standing in the very same spot he had said his farewells to Dyran before his patrol.

But everything is wrong. The night hides much fo the grounds, the sound of the young men training is horribly absent, letting silence rule over the land wher there should be noise. And there is no little brother there to cheer on as he fights his way through training, one opponent at a time.

And it is here, in the darkness of the night, with none but the torches flickering light and the stars to bear witness, that Gybryn breaks down and curses life and its unfairness and the cruelty of the world that made it take a boy who never would know the wonders of the world.


	14. Vase

_Disclaimer: see ch 1_

_A/N: Sorry for the long absence. Bunnies couldn't stay alive. Thankfully, Anborn was found when looking up LOTR characters. In case anyone's wondering, he's the one that finds Gollum at the pool when Frodo and Sam are captured by Faramir. Anyways hope you enjoy.- Damon (Banshee Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)_

_**WARNING:** There is a bit of gore, so those who haven't the stomach, like Sephora (nudge) please don't. Not terribly explicit, but enough that some might be a bit disquieted._

* * *

Anborn: Vase

The vase is on its side, the lone rose in it, a soft yellow that has not yet lost all its softness, except for where the petals have soaked in water for too long. Still yellow, except for a single drop of red that has been soaked up and started to turn brown.

It's not what he should be focusing on, but Arborn can't bring himself to look away, to look back at the horror of the house, forever empty of the family that lived here. The family he was too late to save.

Arborn stares at that flower, wondering how long it can keep its gentle color before water corrodes its delicate petals. _(He doesn't want to look at the blood splattered walls behind it, with a bloody hand print forever branded into a once white and clean surface. It hurts too much to look at it. It hurts too much to look at the results of his failure.)_

His eyes trace the green stem, which even now has begun to show the veins of brown, death and decay having finally found the proper veins to slip into so they can slip in and destroy the beauty of this delicate life. _(He doesn't want to look over at the fireplace and see a mess of entrails left over by creatures he's supposed to be able to protect his people from_.)

Arborn looks into the clear vase, glass, expensive, no doubt a wedding present for the couple by friends or family. The vase is not smooth, but has curves and bends the images behind it, for which he is grateful for. For it bends what is beyond it beyond recognition in the right places, makes it so he doesn't have to see. _(He doesn't want to think about what the rest of the house must look like, with what is left of the people that lived here. He doesn't want to see what really is behind the vase, doesn't want to know of the horrors he has seen too many times before.)_

He wonders who gave it to them. Was it the bride's mother? _(How would she feel, knowing her line was gone, that the daughter she had raised was now dead, before her? Was the mother even alive, or had she too died by the inhuman hands of such heinous creatures? Was she another failure of his, or would she be alive and be another face of heartbreak to add to the long list Arborn has already created in his too few/too many years of service?) _Or perhaps it was bought by the husband for his wife, something to remind her that to him, she is worth every penny spent for such finery. _(Did he know that his time with her would be short and so he tried his best to ensure that she knew that their time together was worth every second?)_

He makes the mistake of looking just to the right, where he sees the small hall that would take him to another death scene, where the remnants of children will be. Where he sees the carcass of the mother lying prone, partly eaten, in a final attempt to save herself and her children, no doubt hidden. _(He doesn't want to go into the bedrooms, doesn't want to see sheets stained red, doesn't want to see broken glass littering the floor in the only sign of a struggle to survive doesn't want to see, doesn't want to see-)_

A hand falls onto his shoulder and it is only his years of training that keeps him from attacking the man who has but has not been able to sneak up on him as he stares at the flower drowned and rootless. He turns tired brown eyes to his captain, the only weakness he lets show anymore, in this war against a bloodthirsty darkness that has taken too much from him already. Already depleted his reservoir of hope and takes more from him every time he comes upon a scene like this; a scene that tells him that for all his dedication, he will never be enough to defeat this enemy. That they are not enough. That _he_ is not enough.

His captain says nothing. What can you say when faced with the failure of your duty to a people you are willing to sacrifice your life for?

What can you say to the dead when they can't hear you anymore?

Arborn goes to the table and gently puts the dying rose bud into his palm, lifts up the flower and vase and stands them up, the light from the window highlighting its beauty in the den of death. A final prayer for better things to come, not much, but it is all he can give.

Arborn might not have words to say to comfort the dead, but he sure as hell can be a final prayer for better days in his duty as a Ranger of Ithilien, and a wrathful vengeance against those that dare to take life where it should be allowed to live.

And he will not fail that duty.


End file.
